


(Untitled)

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, shrug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 12:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11441064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Oh, that kid? He’s messed up, it’d probably be best to ignore him.”Hajime doesn’t.





	(Untitled)

**Author's Note:**

> So. Um. I realized I needed to go through my usb that has all my fic ideas/notes on it? and so, I went through it and found this. It's really bad in terms of editing, I majorly messed up the past/present tenses and shit like that. I wrote all of this as an emotion dump. It was a bad time for me, I guess.  
> I tend to write myself as tooru a whole lot. Not everything that happens here happened to me, but some feelings, thoughts, definitely did occur at one point or another. It's unfinished, so it ends on a sort of confusing note i guess, but I dont think im ever going to finish it.  
> I just thought, you, know. Maybe I could post it here.  
> please don't be too harsh with me lol I wrote this like half a year ago

He cries with his knees pulled up to his chest, his forehead pressed to his knees as liquid moonlight pours from his once-glowing eyes.

_Sometimes the moon doesn’t come out, son._

The deep pit in his chest, that empty, rattling feeling, is all but something he’s gotten used to. The skin under his eyes is a dark purple, his skin pallid and gray. He is not a shining star like he used to be. Sick in his head. He’s gotten used to hearing people talk him down, they use words like weapons, and he has only his heart in his hands, ready to give it away as they shoot him down.

He’d give his heart away, to anyone who would listen to him. 

===

His father had left when he turned six. He had gotten used to the yelling by then, the harsh sounds of glass smashing and skin slapping on skin, screams and tears. His sister held him closer, covered his ears with her hands, but that did nothing to stop the swirling thoughts in his head. His sister was crying, tears softly falling into his hair, sliding off of her chin. Then the front door slammed, and his father was gone. He did not cry, because his father only hit him if he dared act weak. As his sister exited the room, to their mother, sobbing on the floor, he felt as if the walls were closing in, and he had turned into a block of lead, unable to move or speak, only sinking deeper into the ice-cold feeling pooling in his stomach.

His father died in a car accident three weeks later. 

===

There’s a book in his hands, as he walks to the bus stop. He has forgotten what it was about long ago. He only sees the words, but does not read them. Small droplets of rain fall from the sky, onto the old yellowing pages of the book in his hands. The rain only gets heavier the longer he waits for the bus to come. Just as it starts to pour, someone puts an umbrella over his head. 

He turns his head and sees a boy next to him, with a frown sewn onto his features, his eyes dark like charcoal, finding a pebble near his feet much more interesting than the boy he’s offering his umbrella to. 

His eyes widen a fraction, and he looked at the other boy, for just a moment, before turning his head back down to his book. The umbrella was not pulled away until the bus arrived, and both boys climbed its steps, each sitting down in opposite empty seats.

He looked out the window, down at his book, listened to the pattering of the rain on the roof of the bus. Anything, to take his mind off of the boy with the charcoal eyes.

After that, he didn’t need to worry about strange boys giving him umbrellas when they really shouldn’t be, because nobody sat next to him on the bus, anyway. 

They arrived at the school later, and he watched girls pulling down the backs of their skirts, giggling as they put their schoolbags over their heads, dashing through the pouring rain. There are some boys blushing, they saw the girls too. They seem to be giggling to themselves as well. 

He feels nothing. Only a lingering heaviness that he tells himself he’s gotten used to.

Someone wrote ‘faggot’ on his locker in big black lettering. When he was younger, he bit back tears as he ignored the sniggers in the background. Now he wishes only that the tears would come back. 

He opens his locker and puts his sopping shoes away, switching it out for the spare pair he always kept. When he reached back to grab it, his fingers hit something sticky. He pulls out the source, and found both shoes covered in the sticky substance. Somebody behind him laughs loudly, trying to cover it up with a cough. Whatever, he didn’t need his other shoes today, anyway.

As he throws them in the trash, for a fleeting second, his eyes catch on a set frown and downcast dark eyes, and he immediately turns away, heading for his classroom before the warning bell rings.

===

_He tells himself he can make it, he can do it, he can run to the finish line, but which line is the finish? Will one just lead him in circles forever? Liquid regret pools behind his eyelids. He is not starlight._

_He never was starlight. He wished he was, oh, he wished he could glow like the sun and smile like a thousand planets had all aligned, just for him, but what we wish for is deceiving, it is cruel and hateful. It is something we will never have, so it only truly gives us, as a human race, a greater reason to be sad._

_We are born with melancholy running through our veins, pumping through our heads. We are broken shells of what happiness was._

_We are not worth a thousand galaxies, like we all dream we could be._

_But that does not mean I don’t look up at the stars some nights and wish that someone out there in this lonely galaxy would take my heart and love every messed up, broken, ripped and scarred part of me, see past what everybody else sees.  
That doesn’t mean I can’t wish someone would see me._

===

The charcoal-eyed boy followed him home that day. He kept walking, pretending he didn’t feel those dark eyes boring holes into the back of his head.

The boy turned off in another direction, and he let out a small sigh of relief. 

_Why did he follow me this far, though?_

Something warm bubbles in his chest. 

He enters his shabby old house—more like a shack, now—to the smell of burning mackerel. His mother was never the best cook, especially now, since she can’t even afford proper cookware. 

She smiles at him, sheepishly, and he does his best to smile back, but it hurts his face. Smiling doesn’t feel right anymore. His sister is asleep on the other side of their shared bedroom.

Sometimes she isn’t home, she has a husband now, but when they fight, she comes back and stays the night. They’ve been fighting a lot lately. He lays down on his ripped old futon and listens to the drips of rain hitting the bottom of the metal bucket sitting in the middle of the old tatami floors, from the leak in the roof that no one cared enough to fix. Usually his dad was the handyman. 

He closes his eyes, and sleeps.

===

The charcoal-eyed boy is there, his hand is warm and calloused, doesn’t he play for the volleyball team? He doesn’t pay much attention to the school’s sports, usually the people at the games try to make fun of him. They tell him he looks like a girl, that he’s too tall and too skinny, too this and too that, but those words are not of one who is poor and close to starving. So he doesn’t go to sports games. 

His hands are encased by the other boy’s, warm and safe, and there’s a warm tug in his gut.

_Want_

He wants things he knows he can’t have. He can’t upset his mother any more than she already is. He can’t do that to her.

His father is there, angry, his hand raised in the air, preparing to come down on him. The warm want in his gut changes to cold fear, swiftly coursing through him as his mother screams. 

His sides burn, the scars feel like they did when they were fresh cuts, on fire, like someone poured acid all over him and burnt off his skin and left him to bleed and melt. His forearms, the inside of his thighs, on his stomach and all the way up his ribs, it burns, it burns-

He doesn’t realize he’s screaming until his sister wakes him up, jolting his shoulder. There are tears in her eyes too. He scrambles into her arms, and she holds him until his racing heart calms down, the torrents of nausea faded, and the silver tears on his cheeks dried.  
===

He sits in the library after school the next day, reading about Jupiter and its moons. He remembers his father used to tell him about the four largest moons, Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto. His father used to love talking about outer space.

“Hey.” 

He looks up, and is not surprised by what he is met with. Two charcoal eyes, dark and intense as always. His voice is a low baritone.

_Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto, Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto,_

“Hey,” He responds, looking back down at his book.

“What’re you reading?” it comes out more like a demand than a question. The boy shuffles awkwardly in place, like he’s uncomfortable being surrounded by bookcases taller than he is. 

_IoEuropaGanymedeCallistoIoEuropaGanymedeCallistoIoEuropaGanymedeCallisto-_

“A book,” is his answer. The other snorts, and finally decides to sit down next to him. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, lightly tapping the edge of the table, his heel bouncing on the carpeted floor. 

“Tooru. Oikawa Tooru,” Tooru says, still not looking up from his book. 

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” Hajime’s composure shrinks away and his cheeks are a little pink as he amends, “I mean-! Iwaizumi’s my name.”

“Nice to meet you then,” Tooru turns the page. He’s not even reading the book. 

They’re both quiet for another few seconds. 

“Will you be here tomorrow?” 

“What?” 

“Will you be here, in the library, after school tomorrow?” Iwaizumi asks again, but he doesn’t look at Oikawa.

“I….guess,” Oikawa closes his book, and thinks for a moment.  
“Goodbye.” He stands up, grabs his bag and leaves. Iwaizumi watches him go, thinking that he looks very skinny for a teenage boy. 

(Oikawa walks home, frowning, unknowing of the fact that he has just met the person who will really, truly, _see_ him.)

===

It’s sunny the time exams are passed out, and Tooru stares down at his blankly. His right hand is shaking, it only does that when he drinks too much coffee in the mornings. _That must be what he spends all his pocket money on now, bad coffee from the local convenience store,_ Hajime thinks as he watches Tooru, pressing the soft eraser to his bottom lip. Math had never really been his forte, and examining the smooth curve of Tooru’s shoulders seems much more appealing to him, anyways.

The columns of sunlight cut through the classroom at jagged angles, and small particles of dust can be seen floating through. The light catches the caramel-brown of Tooru’s hair perfectly, like a soft orange halo, crowning him. 

Hajime had transferred to the school only this year, with his father. He was used to the loud, bustling streets of the city, the glowing city lights that block out the night sky, but coming to the more rural areas of Japan was sort of refreshing, in a way. 

His father had gotten a new job in marketing ( _or whatever,_ ) but he threw himself into his work, barely speaking to Hajime. After losing his wife, he didn’t seem to have the heart for much. Work, for him, was a distraction. 

He had noticed Tooru on his first day. The teacher told him to introduce himself, and he did, bowing in front of the class. As he stood back up, he caught sight of that soft caramel halo. The look in the boy’s eyes, the dark bags underneath, they were things Hajime recognized. His father looked just like that, after his mother passed away. 

Hajime tried to speak to him after class, during lunch, but he was whisked away by a group of girls and boys alike, all ready to inform him of anything he needed to know about the school. When he asked about the pale boy with the empty stare and the skinny arms, they only told him to stay away. (They all told him he had been abused, and raped, his dad was a drunk, a druggie who got himself killed in a huge car crash, and now he’s poor and he lives in a box with his mother, who’s rumored to be a prostitute.)(Hajime chose not to believe those things. He had an odd hunch that they were mostly rumors.) 

_“Oh, that kid? He’s messed up, it’d probably be best to ignore him.”_

Hajime doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> It's so confusing, you can literally tell when the writing style changes from super vague and confusing to kinda straightforward, if you know what i mean.  
> I almost laughed while proofreading, i tried to fix it up a little, but it's _actually a lost cause._
> 
> idk y ur still here but if u are thanks for reading and leave those nice supportive comments that keep me writing (usually) non-angsty things :"))))  
>  (can u tell i really loved those star/galaxy parallels im screaming @myself jfc)


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